


i wanna feel you in my bones

by ElasticElla



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Mild Gore, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24204718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/pseuds/ElasticElla
Summary: She’s had a millennia to inspect Hel, to get to know it as intimately as one can. It is a well crafted cage, but like all crafted things, it has tells and weaknesses.
Relationships: Brunnhilde | Valkyrie/Hela (Marvel)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	i wanna feel you in my bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/gifts).



> a huge thank you to misura for making a donation to Fair Vote! \o/

Hela feels the moment dear old Dad decides to retire to Midgard. She’s had a millennia to inspect Hel, to get to know it as intimately as one can. It is a well crafted cage, but like all crafted things, it has tells and weaknesses. Her first escape would have been successful if she’d ran. Centuries she’s had to recall that battle, dissected into its tiniest slivers, of all the moments she could have fled to freedom. Of her damned pride that insisted on standing her ground, of trying to best the old man in battle. 

It’s easy to isolate her father’s signature on Hel’s binding, he’s always been one to take credit, deserved or not. He is weak and frail now, his power waned such that she can escape to a small planet outside the nine realms. Odin is perhaps years or mere months from death, foolishly thinking she’ll wait patiently to arrive in halls she knows. Or maybe the planet has escaped his limited field of vision. Or perhaps he thinks she _wants_ to see him again, to tear his heart from his chest, to be reborn in a spray of blood. (She can admit the allure of such cyclical poetry.)

But no, she is no longer the Executioner of Asgard. She will put her self and her survival first, even if the risk is small, even if it means hiding out on this trash planet and denying herself well-deserved patricide. Her arrival was less than graceful, slipping out of Hel as gently as possible and aiming herself to the nearest world. Landing in a literal heap of trash, _eugh_ , no wonder Odin didn’t seek to exclude this place. 

There is a man stumbling a few trash piles away, close enough to death. His eyes are wide at her arrival, speaking in a tongue she doesn’t recognize but is easy enough to understand. He begs for the usual things, not to be hurt, that he has a family, increasingly panicked as she approaches. She helps him along, like the merciful goddess she is, and helps herself to his purse. A weak offering, but her magic purrs at the sacrifice, it has been far too long since she took a life. 

She continues walking to a nearby city. It’s still new enough to walk to a destination rather than in circles, that she doesn’t mind the slowness. There are a few fellow travelers, and she takes them all, pocketing their money. She doesn’t know how much this currency is worth, the odd little metal rectangles, but she’s built up a decent amount of them as she enters the ugly city. The noise is near deafening, people shouting across the way, at potential customers. It turns her hands to fists, the urge to destroy burning in her gut. 

The Tipsy Donkey sounds like precisely the type of establishment she needs to visit immediately. The tavern is everything she hoped: dim and damp, with colors far more muted than the city’s too bright buildings and stalls. There are only a handful of people, quiet, and she takes an empty corner of the bar, pleased. 

The bartender looks more insect than person, but she spots opposable thumbs, will give them a chance. She slaps all the metal pieces she collected on the bar, “The strongest drink this gets me.” 

Low chittering has her raising an eyebrow, but they swipe the metal bits and turn back to where the bottles are. There’s clinking glass, liquors pouring, and she’s presented with a neon red drink. 

It burns all the way down, cherry-cinnamon in its wake. It’s stronger than the cloyingly sweet mead they drink back home, and Hela rather likes it. Tempting as it is to throw the rest back, she paces herself. She’s trying to live on this trash planet until daddy dies, it’ll only make things boring to kill all the inhabitants so early on. (Or attract too much off-world attention, genocide has a nasty habit of doing that.)

The door opens with a warm wind, and Hela instinctively turns, magic bristling oddly. A beautiful woman clad in black armor and a familiar face walks in. 

…she could have sworn she killed them ages ago. 

A valkyrie walks into the bar, doesn’t even notice her – an implausible jest – sitting a half-dozen seats away. Hela tells herself it’s a good thing. She doesn’t want to make a name for herself in this place, not yet anyways. 

Her feet have another plan, picking her up and bringing her next to the warrior. Deft fingers disarm the woman before she sits, can smell the whiskey on her already. And that does explain how she’s so slow on the uptake, only checking her pockets now for knives, stumbling up and raising her fists. 

“You murderous hag!” she exclaims, grabbing a nearby bottle and smashing it open on the bar. The other patrons edge out, and the insect bartender disappeared at some point. Of course she’s landed on a planet of weaklings when she ought to create an army, a pity. 

“What’s your name Valkyrie?”

“Does it matter?” 

“I thought I killed you all. Was your mummy a fighter? Don her armor?” 

“You’re still an absolute bitch, Hela,” she spits out her name like a curse, and the memories come back. 

Brunnhilde. 

Once, Hela had plotted to steal all the valkyries’ loyalty from her father. To have the best trained and easily mobile army. Even better, one that didn’t stand a chance against her. She only got as far as learning the names and faces before Odin turned coward and peace-monger. 

She is one of the chits that went up against her, had a fellow valkyrie sacrifice herself to save her. Remembers the flash of anguish on her expressive face, and then Odin appeared. She thought she sent another spear her way to end the last one, the best of the lot, but apparently not. 

Hela truly smiles for the first time since her escape – this, _this_ feels like destiny. 

Brunnhilde, and the name sounds decadent even inside her own head, is not of the same mind. Brunnhilde charges forward with her broken bottle, slashing at her neck. 

Hela bats it away, glass smashing against the wall.

“Come now, you’re in no state to fight. Join me for a drink.” 

Brunnhilde throws a fist next, and Hela catches it, impressed with the force behind it. The valkyrie hasn’t let herself go dull, regardless of her current condition or circumstances. 

“Unless it is your blood, you have nothing worthwhile to offer me,” she growls, yanking her wrist free. 

“Oh I have plenty of blood to offer. Your family still resides on Asgard, yes?” 

Brunnhilde was one of the few with living parents. The question of pegasus and egg remains from before: were the valkyries chosen because they were orphans or did they become orphans upon being chosen? There were only three with living parents, precisely so moments like these couldn’t happen. 

Brunnhilde grumbles something under her breath, turns to grab a bottle from behind the bar – doesn’t smash this one open – and sits. “Well get on with it. I’m listening.” 

“I need a queen. One the people will love, for they will be ruled by fear and love in equal measure.” 

She snorts, “Dunno what you heard about my bounty hunting, but trust me no ‘queens’ will be scavenged up here.” 

“You mistake me.” She tilts her head, “Purposefully. Odd given your standings.” 

Defiance looks good on her, her shoulders strong and mouth curled in a snarl. “No.”

“Must I threaten you again?” 

“What are you gonna do? Kill everyone on Asgard if I don’t return with you?” 

“Yes.” 

“That’s- that’s madness. You’d rule an empty rock.” 

She could always create her own race, she is a goddess. Sure, they’d be boring conversationalists, but they’d obey perfectly. Not a horrible backup plan all things considered. 

“Perhaps I’d let you live, truly regret your choice.” 

“This is why you have no friends.” 

Hela laughs, surprising herself, and the warrior too judging by her face. “Queen Consort then?” 

“I’m not having sex with you.” 

“Nor anyone else,” Hela says, will not be made a fool of. 

Brunnhilde grimaces, “My parents go into hiding. Another realm you don’t know.” 

Hela shrugs, “Makes no difference to me.” 

It does. 

Her dear little to be valkyrie wife is already isolating herself. Hela couldn’t build such a perfectly ornate cage if she tried. Between time and loneliness and being a queen – Brunnhilde will be hers.

“Fine.” 

Hela smiles, twisting a sliver of her magic into a beautiful golden ring, shining amethyst on top, slim golden antlers trapping the gem. Subtleties are for the weak, and she delights in Brunnhilde’s grimace as she dons the ring. 

It will be quite the feat to conquer her heart. 

(Hela has yet to meet a land that won’t yield to her.)

.

She learns rather quickly that Brunnhilde is the pragmatic sort. Hela appreciates it, doesn’t care to echo old threats. The woman takes her to her dismal home, and it’s as if she was waiting for Hela to come rescue her from herself. 

There are empty bottles everywhere, heaps of old laundry, and not nearly enough room. Even the walls are a dingy gray, with stains and dust as if – _oh_ , of course. The valkyrie is punishing herself for her failure, has created this miniature prison for herself. 

Foolish to berate herself so heavily, but Hela likes the mark of underlying loyalty. So deep Brunnhilde probably attributes it to laziness or busyness, or some other petty concept. Makes the rest of this inhabitable mess acceptable.

Not that she’ll deign to live like this of course. Now that Brunnhilde is in her proper place, it’s unnecessary. And smells. 

So when Brunnhilde leaves the following morning to search for new gladiators to sell – Hela goes out on her own search. Takes a handful of people before she finds the right combination of muscles and willingness to be threatened. 

It’s a shame her connection to Asgard is weakened off-planet, if it weren’t she could’ve simply reanimated a corpse and been done in half the time. (It wouldn’t last long without a sustaining magic, but this is a small project.)

Instead she’s ordering around some man until the place is unrecognizable, squeaky clean and smelling of something floral. 

It’ll do. 

Merely livable, nothing in the face of gilded columns and tapestries of fonder memories, in the face of all she will inherit. It lacks the high ceilings that are befitted a god, lacks the proper atmosphere. 

(Irritatingly, Brunnhilde doesn’t say a word about the changes – Hela would have accepted praise or a fight, the apathy is grating.)

.

Brunnhilde led a very boring life since coming to Sakaar, yet another way she’s saved her. She should start keeping a list.

The warrior drinks, eats, works, sleeps – repeats the four endlessly. She only plays bounty hunter enough to keep a steady supply of ale in the house. She doesn’t seem to have much of a social life, or perhaps has the common sense to keep them away. No matter, Hela has ventured into the city to replenish their house with food that isn’t dried meat and to find some form of entertainment. After an hour of searching, throwing elbows into the crowd of shoppers, she has come to a most distressing realization:

There is no bread in the market. 

One day she will crush this false planet out of existence. Will start with the people, let their screams be the melody of her destruction. Bring the buildings to rubble, and salt the land. Rip apart the planet itself until there is only a scattering of rubble in the universe where it once was. 

She blames the daydreams of grisly annihilation for the cold steel that stabs into her shoulder. There is a loose ring of warriors and mages surrounding her, passerby skittering away into the shadows. Such weaklings, the distaste for this planet’s inhabitants stronger than ever. 

“Kneel,” one of them barks in an ugly language, far too close, can smell the rot on their breath. 

A woman walks by with her child, covering their eyes and hurrying them along. Hela’s lips twist into an unpleasant smile, even the least honorable of the Asgardians would fight such monsters in their own streets. 

“You are the peasant,” she hisses, summoning a pair of swords and slicing his legs off. 

The others spring into motion too slow as she manifests a dozen daggers, each landing in a soft throat. They gurgle, fall as one, child’s play truly. Thinks of the mother and child, and really, maybe it isn’t too early for a little light genocide. 

With a sigh, she grabs a scarf off the nearest body, wrapping it around her shoulder to staunch the bleeding. Were she back home the wound would be healed by now, then again back home the blade wouldn’t have even broken skin.

The lot has no identifying insignia or personal items, only weapons and a metal net. A pitiful force, and as Hela walks away, the pedestrians return in droves. The scavengers descend upon the bodies, taking the weapons and clothes. 

There is only one plausible explanation, one that pleases her for Brunnhilde has been tempered by this world, grown more callous. It’s adorable, how her little valkyrie wanted a measure of her strength, didn’t care about the cost. Doubtless it was with insurrection in mind, but she is the practical sort – won’t dismiss her abilities for their eventual rule. 

Hela certainly won’t forget, and such steel is befitting one to wear a crown. 

(Neither of them bring it up at dinner, but Brunnhilde digs into the roasted fowl with the enthusiasm of a clear mind.)

.

“Tell me about your past.” 

Hela raises an eyebrow, “Tell me about yours – oh, wait.” 

Anger flashes over her face, dissipates. Interesting.

Interesting enough that Hela lets it go, adding on, “Surely you’ve heard the stories.” 

She snorts, “Oh yeah, stillborn babe that killed all she touched. People actually buy that tripe?”

“Dramatics run in the family. Be glad you won’t have to carry my heir.” 

Brunnhilde looks her over slow, and Hela hates how attentive she is to her response – hasn’t confirmed that particular childhood story before. 

“I can’t imagine you pregnant.” 

Her lips twitch, betraying her urge to smile. “My sweet warrior,” she loves how Brunnhilde cringes at the epithet, “there shall be no heir for I am immortal. Death is my dominion. Ours once we are wed.” She takes an unnecessary breath, watches her carefully, “We have a true eternity before us.” 

Brunnhilde startles, eyes wide, she looks almost afraid. 

“I need-” she starts, rubbing her forehead. “I can’t,” and then Brunnhilde is gone. 

Hela fancies she just utterly ruined one of Brunnhilde’s plans. And even better, it seems her own unending disturbed her far more. 

(It is Asgard of course, not Death, that tethers her to existence. But Hela doesn’t trust Brunnhilde with that, not yet.) 

.

Hela doesn’t bring up her impending immortality again, doesn’t need to. The seed has been planted, now there is only waiting. One would think hundreds of years in captivity would grant her patience, but it does no such thing.

In an effort to reduce the amount of civilians murdered, or perhaps keep her from renovating the apartment more dramatically, Brunnhilde set up tonight’s outing. 

Feet dangling off the edge of her ship, tankard of ale in hand, and crowds cheering below – this isn’t what Hela imagined when she was told they were going to see ‘a show’. Not that Hela’s complaining, it’s fun to watch a fight, even if the participants are far too amateur to teach her anything. 

The Grandmaster’s projection grows as he speaks again, such petty illusions of grandeur. “And now, the event you’ve all been waiting for – making their third appearance in the ring, I give you, the Man of Shadows!” 

A trembling man emerges, a dagger clutched in each hand, and sweat visibly dripping down his face. 

Hela turns to Brunnhilde, “He won twice already? That terrified creature?”

The Grandmaster answers the question before her, “He might not look like much. But our devoted sports fans will remember how he can slip in and out of shadows. Striking before his opponents can defend themselves.” 

“Magic,” Brunnhilde grunts. 

Hela rolls her eyes – having already deduced that thank you – though it sounds like a neat trick. 

“And the man, the monster, the most unique creature I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you… the Hulk!” 

A giant green person decked in armor and a wielding a huge battleaxe runs into the arena, and the crowd goes wild. Screaming, poofs of green dust all over the stands, posters waving – this is clearly the favored champion. 

The Hulk rushes the man, slamming their axe into the ground a hair’s breadth beside them, the crowd roars at the near miss. 

The slender man drops, disappears into the ground, popping out at the opposite side of the arena. 

The Hulk runs at them again, and this time the man shadow-portals to the opposite end faster. The crowd boos, and the repetitive game of chase continues. It’s merely a question of stamina now, the giant green creature slowing as the man’s portals take longer to conjure. 

It’s by far the most boring match all night, not that the Grandmaster seems to agree, narrating like a surprised child each time the mage pops away. 

“Are the champion matches usually so long?” Hela asks, and curse herself, she’s resorted to small talk. 

Brunnhilde grunts, opening a bag of crisps, ring glinting in the harsh light. The valkyrie pops some dried insects that look to be extra long cockroaches in her mouth, far too reminiscent of what she stooped to eat in Hel. Hela washes the phantom taste out with ale, too weak to do much more than leave a bitter taste in her mouth. 

It’s nearly an hour before the gladiators slow more dramatically. A bloodthirsty energy returns to the crowd as the Hulk’s axe chops off two of the man’s fingers, nearly drops one of his knives. This time, the mage portals into the Hulk’s shadow, atop his shoulders and stabbing a knife into the back of his neck, bringing the second to the front to slit his throat. 

The Hulk roars, grabbing the mage by the leg and slamming him into the ground before he can, a loud crunch of bones. The Hulk throws the body down over and over until the mutilated corpse isn’t recognizable. Green dust is swirling through the crowds again, the Grandmaster cheerfully announcing the Hulk’s win, and Hela looks at the suitably gruesome beast. 

She’s missed having a gigantic feral dog, could use a new pet.

Brunnhilde tosses her empty tankard out of the ship, goes to the pilot’s seat. “Let’s go home.” 

And Hela rather likes that, stomach swooping with sudden turbulence as Brunnhilde flies them back. 

.

A cold blade presses against her neck, and Hela is awake immediately. She smiles easy, genuinely impressed how far the valkyrie got. 

“You once fought for my attention, look at you now.” 

Brunnhilde’s eyes flash, could be holding a fleck of Valhalla within them for how they glow. “You do remember me.” 

Partly, not individually, but there’s no harm in the girl inflating her own sense of importance. 

“You are my favorite.”

She scoffs, pressing the knife closer, but still not enough to break skin. “You expect me to believe you?” 

“You’re the only survivor.” 

She considers letting Brunnhilde stab her, sometimes people need to see to believe. But Hela’s finally grown accustomed to these thin bed sheets, won’t break in another set. She banishes the knife with a wave, and Brunnhilde topples forward, fated truly, how she lands in her bed. 

“Tell me future wife,” Hela rolls them over, so she’s pinning her to the mattress. A valkyrie always looks glorious, but Brunnhilde is positively divine in her stealthy outfit, mere wisps of dark cloth that betray her form. So very soft without her armor. 

“How many times should you be allowed to rebel before-” 

Lips interrupt her words, eyes go wide at the movement. She’s used to seduction being another tool in her arsenal, one she hasn’t needed to employ since her powers were fully learned. One that was never turned against her – for who would dare? The warm kiss feels more taunt than gift, especially at how Brunnhilde falls back against the pillows, grinning wildly up at her. 

“Well, _future wife_ , we both know you like me rebellious.” 

Hela wants to deny it – truth doesn’t matter when dealing with potentially treasonous words – but Brunnhilde leans up to kiss her again. Ready this time, Hela cups her face, tongue pressing against the seam of her lips. (Her eyes remain open, she isn’t that foolish. Open, and she is the prettiest sight in the universe.) 

Brunnhilde’s fingers tangle into her hair, lightly tugging, and Hela could almost forget what prompted her with how good she feels. 

Almost. 

Hela pulls away, delights in the hazy expression on Brunnhilde’s face as her eyes flutter open – even if it is merely theater, she has no shortage of time to make it true. 

Hela swallows her spit, words coming out stilted, “You can’t, you can’t keep kissing me to halt this argument.” 

The most devastating look is leveled up at her, Brunnhilde lazily licking her lips and arousal churns deep in her stomach. “We’ll see.” 

Brunnhilde slides out from under her, goes back to her room, and Hela certainly doesn’t bury her face in the pillow that faintly smells of her as some fresh maiden would. 

Not too long ago, there was only a simple plan to conquer the universe with an undying army. Her new dreams are so much more satisfying to ponder, so much more complex. She was born to rule, and Brunnhilde certainly destined.

Soon. 

Soon Odin will be dead, and they will return to Asgard together. And no one, not a single person in the entire universe, will hold any hope of defeating her.


End file.
